


Postmortem

by kres



Series: Series Four Daisy (Chain) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9419702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kres/pseuds/kres
Summary: They rest, after Vivaldi.





	

They rest, after Vivaldi, in the perfect silence of many ears listening at once.

"I always wanted to be a real life Bond villain," she says, watching him through her reflection in the reinforced glass. He doesn't flinch, not by a hair, which means he had known all along. Smart boy. She smiles. "You must admit, it was very well done. So dramatic. Even Mycroft let himself get a little-- involved."

He doesn't reply. His coat hangs on the newly installed hook by the door. His shoes rest across the safety line. The cameras don't blink. Mycroft will be watching them, later.

"It's the location," she says, and he says, "Eurus--" and of course she knows why he keeps coming here, why he keeps playing.

"There's something you still don't understand," she allows. "Say it."

He doesn't pretend. He looks her straight in the eye like it makes a difference. "How can you _stand_ being here?" he says, and it's-- not a surprise, really; Stockholm Syndrome was a likely side effect. "Doesn't your brain--"

"Go crazy?" she interrupts, stabbing at it, recalling. "Like an engine? Racing out of control? A rocket, tearing itself to pieces?"

That stops him, an itch in his eidetic memory, and it's true, they are kin, they share parts of a genome, and there will be some correlation between the likelihood of their choices. But Eurus is, as always, one step ahead. (She doesn't need more.)

She smiles, gently now, because after all, he is still a child. "I know who I am, Sherlock. Out there, I could rule the world."

He nods. He understands this. Likelihood of their choices. "Why don't you, then?"

"You know why." She pauses, lifts her chin. "Because it is--"

"Boring."

And oh, he is fast. She barely had to lift her voice. It is-- pleasing. Nearly an equal match. It's so-- rare.

He watches her, assessing, from the other side of the glass. But her facades are impenetrable. Which one of them is he seeing now?

"Father has an extensive library of existentialists," he says at last. "I'm sure you'd find something to your liking."

Depression. Interesting diagnosis. Does he think himself an expert, having endured one just now?

"Oh, drop it," she says, sitting down. "You know it, and I know you do. Human beings - the flawed ones, bless them - live in an eternal hope of improving themselves. I don't need to do that. Do you know why?" She waits for him to hold her gaze long enough so she doesn't have to add decorations. "Because I am complete."

He is silent again. She watches him. Is this what he looks like when he gains new understanding? When he discovers that there is something that he didn't know, something that changes-- that has just changed his view of the world?

It takes him a little while to regain his composure. She waits, observing, until he is calm.

"Yes," he says, and he looks at her like he knows what he's doing. "You are."

"But you love me."

"I do." And his voice breaks there, and it's beautiful to watch, how she takes him apart yet again, knowing he will return still for more. This is all she ever wanted: just to play.

"I told you, Sherlock," she says, gently, when he's gathered himself together again, and he grasps at the bait like - even now - he doesn't know any better.

"Told me what?" he says, and he sounds so-- hollow. Tired. She smiles.

"You're sweet."

They are going to have so much more fun together.


End file.
